Scars like Signatures
by Estoma
Summary: Sixty years later, Peeta's still watching the way the sunset looks on her dark hair.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: For Nona, on her birthday. Who doesn't like Everlark, hey? **

**Prompt: Orange, the Colour Challenge, at Caesar's Palace.**

The late afternoon sun filtered through the light curtains to fill the room with a dim luminescence. Hanging limply, the curtains were covered with dust, but the ruffles indicated they were opened regularly. The windows themselves, made of four simple panes of glass, faced westward over the orchard that had been planted around the victor's village a few years after the rebellion. Now, the trunks were gnarled, and some of the original trees had been replaced with younger saplings, grown from the seeds of the first. White and orange chickens scratched peacefully in the sparse grass and fallen petals at the roots of the trees.

Sunlight touched the table inside the room and illuminated the warm hue and the grain of the wood. There were splatters of paint, dried to powder with age on its surface. Pencil shavings and charcoal dust collected in the ridges of the wood. They were old, too. In pride of place, in the center of the desk, sat a battered tin. It may once have held biscuits, but the label had long since worn off. It was covered with the same paint splatters as the desk. A multitude of dried out yellows and greens, flaky oranges and paling blues graced its surface.

The hands that rested on the tin looked as battered as it did. Still, they caressed it lovingly, stroking the metal slowly one way, and then the other. They didn't move to open it though, or touch the paint containers within. They were older than the tin and the jar of paintbrushes, cracked and dry with age. The hands curled into arthritic claws and were covered in shiny burn scars. They had not faded over the years. Still, there was something in the way the hands were held that showed they used to have both strength and delicacy within them.

As the afternoon shadows lengthened, the man at the desk stirred. There were burn scars to match his hands, making their way up his forearms and even onto his face. His cheek sported a half healed bruise marking where he had had stumbled into the corner of the door a few days ago.

With the creaking of old wood, and the click of his prosthetic leg, the old man got to his feet. He steadied himself, one hand splayed on the table. When he lifted it, a flake of orange paint came off, too. He rubbed it between calloused forefinger and thumb. It was twelve slow, dragging steps to the window. His prosthetic leg made a curious scraping sound on the old floorboards for he did not have the strength to lift it properly anymore. The man knew the distance well and he rested his hands on the sill. A dead fly crunched under one finger and he absent mindedly wiped it on his trousers. A bit of papery wing clung to his nail. He never let anyone clean this room.

Fumbling around, the old man drew the curtains partially aside. He stood close to the window and let the curtains drape over his shoulders like a cloak. Facing westward, he could feel the last warmth of the sun on his face and looked out over the orchard. It was spring, and all the apple trees were graced with a crown of delicate white and pink petals. Some of the trees had crossbred, and a pale pink, nearly orange flower was seen on a few of the trees. Seen from the second floor of the large house, it appeared as a sumptuous blanket. The sun dipped, nearly to the level of the trees. The clouds above it were dyed delicate oranges and pinks, fading to brooding purples on the edges. Every petal on the apple trees looked as if it were exquisitely outlined in glowing orange, mirroring the clouds.

The old man smiled. There were deep lines around his mouth and eyes, showing that he smiled a lot even though he had lost his sight. He looked out, as he did every evening at the glorious show of nature that he could no longer see.

Peeta still watched the sunset every night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Prompt: Silver, the Colour Challenge**

Two chairs rested on the porch that wrapped around the northern side of the house, sitting in the full morning sun. The porch and the house were painted white but now the paint was peeling. Some of it hung off in strips several inches long that dangled down and threatened to fall. The porch was littered with fallen bits of paint that crunched slightly under foot. Every time their children insisted they get someone in to look at the house, Peeta gently refused. The seams of the planks that made up the porch gaped open as the planks warped over the years. It did not look it, but the house and its fellows were once grand symbols of both fear and hope to the citizens of District 12. Now, it was still a symbol of a kind, but few alive remembered the rebellion.

When most people looked at the old weatherboard home, they smiled fondly and their thoughts turned to memories of old Peeta Mellark and his bakery. Up until three years ago, he ran the bakery in town. It wasn't the only one, but unlike the larger one up the street, it never sold day old bread. There was something appealing about the quaint shop front and the bright cupcakes in the window, decorated like meadow of flowers. Those cupcakes used to be exported all over the country. All were iced by hand with Peeta's initials worked subtly into the design. He never sold the ones that bore little yellow primroses though, or delicate rue flowers. They looked so real, for a moment you expected to taste acrid sap in your mouth when you bit into one. These ones were always kept in a basket on the old, mahogany counter and Peeta handed them out to the children who visited the bakery.

Two people sat in the chairs, not talking, but the silence was warm and lazy, not cold. The chairs had been a gift to Peeta and his wife, thirty years ago now. Johanna had done everything from felling the tall pine tree to lovingly smoothing and polishing the grain with a bit of sandpaper and a rag. Each chair was a piece of artwork. The one that Peeta sat in bore a pattern of wispy clouds, like those often seen at sunset, across the headboard. His wife's showed a tree with spreading branches. It looked like a good climbing tree, with limbs at right angles to the trunk. Peeta couldn't see it anymore, but he smiled each time he ran his fingers over the pattern and imagined Johanna working on it.

"Katniss, love, you're still there, aren't you?" Peeta asked.

"Still here," she agreed easily. "So is Buttercup."

"That's good."

Peeta heard the creak of wood as Katniss leant forwards to draw the cat onto her lap. The tabby mewled and its claws scratched on the porch as Katniss disturbed its peaceful sleep.

"Oh stop it, Buttercup, or I won't give you any entrails," Katniss shushed.

It was the sixth Buttercup they had owned, though only the first one had been a ginger cat.

After a few minutes, Peeta heard a soft purring, almost like a snore. Strands of fur rose from the molting cat as Katniss stroked it firmly. They collected between her fingers and she shook her hand to get rid of them every few moments. Caught in the bright sunshine, each hair looked to be made of gold. The same sunlight caught Katniss' hair, illuminating the silver in a bright nimbus. When her first grey hairs began to appear, stark against the dark brown, Katniss fretted and took to pulling them out. She'd stand over the sink, filling it with long, grey hairs until they tangled in the plughole. She stopped when there was more grey than brown.

"I don't want to be old," she said, leaning over the sink. "I don't want to be old and stop hunting."

"You're only forty," Peeta laughed, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind, lacing his fingers together over her belt buckle. "And you're still my huntress."

"I don't want to be grey," she said, softer this time. They both remembered someone with a sheet of grey hair, so uniform that it did not appear real.

"You're not grey, you're silver," Peeta whispered. Her drew the brown and the silver strands aside so he could kiss the tender piece of skin under her ear and feel her quiver.

Buttercup's disgruntled mew as his paws hit the planks brought Peeta back to the present. Katniss got to her feet and he wondered if he'd dozed off; it happened more and more often now.

"I'm going hunting," Katniss announced.

"Alright," Peeta agreed with a smile. "What will you hunt today?"

"Maybe some fish from the lake by the hut," Katniss said, "and I'll check the snares for Gale."

"A fish might be nice for dinner," Peeta said. He neglected to remind her that Gale had not lived in District 12 for nearly sixty years. And Nelly Odair brought them a hot dinner and enough left over for lunch every evening. "Could you help me up to my painting room please?"

With his hand on his wife's shoulder, feeling the wiry strength still inside her, Peeta tackled the stairs. Their children kept asking them to move to an easier house, but Peeta and Katniss were resolute. This was their first house together, and Peeta knew the layout. He was also worried that if Katniss moved somewhere unfamiliar, she would begin to forget even more things.

Seated at his desk, Peeta reached his hands out to feel his paint tin. He breathed out when his fingers brushed the hard, cool surface. "Good luck hunting, shoot straight," he said with a smile that crinkled his old eyes.

"I'll be back before dark, and I might do some trades in the Hob," Katniss said. She stooped to press her lips to his crinkled cheek, like soft, old parchment. Peeta listened to her receding footsteps, taking the stairs one at a time. He knew she would be back well before dark, especially when she remembered the Hob had burnt down sixty years ago.

In the hallway, hung with coats and framed pictures, Katniss paused as she always did, to shrug on a leather jacket that was older than her. It was stiff with age and the leather threatened to crack at any moment. Taking up a leather sack, Katniss walked between the apple trees, reaching up a hand to knock the petals down to rain on her, like they did on her wedding day. A picket fence, once white, but now as faded as the house, lined the yard. Katniss paused with her hand on the rusted latch and shifted the sack on her shoulder. She realized she'd forgotten her bow and arrow, and spare wire for the snares. As she lifted the latch, Katniss decided, as she always did, that she might just walk through the town instead. Besides, Peeta might need her back home soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: Prompt: Rainbow, the Colour Challenge, from Caesar's Palace forum. **

Rain fell in solid sheets from a leaden sky. The clouds ranged from dark grey to nearly black. Some of them were tinged purple and had green at their hearts, but it wasn't a soft purple, like the shade that tinted the clouds during the finale of a sunset; it was an angry, malevolent colour. The rain seemed to be driven by the same dark intent concealed in the hearts of the clouds. Hounded by the wind, it threw itself against the old, weatherboard house. It seemed determined to seek a way inside and the panes of glass in the kitchen windows rattled under the assault.

In the kitchen, there were three large windows: one facing east and two facing south. They were made of eight square panes of glass each, set in white frames whose paint peeled like the rest of the house. Small scraps of paint littered the sills, curling and drying in the sun when it showed its face. Now, small drops of water forced themselves through the gaps where the glass had lifted away from the wood and lined the sill. Fed by the moisture it received every time it rained heavily, a patch of mould spread out from the bottom corner of one window, a slimy black-green. But, for the most part the kitchen was warm and comfortable, and the mould unnoticed. Against the back wall, a cast iron wood heater burnt merrily. The house used to be heated by a sophisticated system of under-floor pipes, when the cul-de-sac was still called the victor's village. When it needed maintenance, an old fashioned wood heater was put in instead.

Within the closed doors, behind the glass, the flames flickered every shade of red and orange, sometimes nearly white, like a mockery of the rain outside. Peeta thought that it flames had a voice they would be quick and teasing, sharp when angered. He smiled at the thought; he knew a woman like that. Sitting close by the fire in an armchair upholstered in red corduroy, his old, crinkled lips curved up in a slow smile. The chair was a little threadbare around the arms and the seat and the sunken cushion was moulded to Peeta's body. He had stubbornly but gently refused any offers of a new one. Leaning forward, he felt the fire on his face and it cast a ruddy glow on his cheeks, picking out the shiny, white burn scars from splatters of oil.

Katniss sat in the bay window, glaring out at the rain. While the seat was made of pine, worn smooth and shiny by time, there were several cushions behind her back. One depicted a ring of little white and yellow primroses. It was a gift from her mother. Katniss never leant against that one. Another cushion was a depiction of the meadow; a wild scattering of wildflowers covered the plain calico cover in a riotous rainbow of colour. Primroses and rue flowers grew side by side with dandelions and the tiny little green and white flowers put forth by the sweet clover.

With a sigh, Katniss shifted in her seat and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. She narrowed her eyes. "It should have stopped by now," she said.

"I expect the rain will be done by tonight," Peeta replied. He kept his gaze on the fire. He had heard the comment several times this morning.

"I want to hunt," Katniss complained, "I've got a line of snares set and rain this heavy might trigger them. I'll have to set them again."

"I think you'll be right, love," Peeta sighed patiently. "You can go tomorrow."

"Alright?" Katniss turned to face him. "Where do you think our meat comes from?"

Peeta sighed again and chuckled a little. "Nelly brings it over every night."

"What about the rabbit last week. She didn't bring that!"

"You're a good hunter, Katniss-love," Peeta agreed. It was easier that way, though Katniss hadn't hunted for at least fifteen years.

The hard lines of Katniss' face softened and she smiled. Peeta could tell from the tone of her voice. "You're a good baker."

"Thank you," Peeta smiled in return.

On the pine bench was a well-polished breadbox. It was made of a different wood to the rich, warm benches. The wood was dark, nearly black in some lights and the knots stood out strongly. A small inscription was worked into the bottom corner of the lid, though after years of polishing, it was nearly rubbed away.

'J&F, to K&P,' it read. It had been a wedding gift from Johanna and her husband. For nearly sixty years, Peeta filled it with a fresh loaf every day. Sometimes it was rye with hard crunchy seeds, so dark and dense it was almost black. Other times it was small, white rolls shaped like flowers, so light and airy that Katniss could gorge herself on a whole batch. Peeta never minded.

While Katniss did not often remember to dust, or put on a load of washing, she polished the box every day after her breakfast, as she admired whatever creation of flour and yeast filled it. Now it was their grandson, Duncan, who delivered fresh bread from Mellark Bakery, made by his own hands. Katniss never realized that Peeta did not bake the bread that appeared each day, though Peeta tried to tell her. He had taught Duncan so well that she never noticed a difference in the taste.

"I wish it would stop raining," Katniss complained again. She straightened her limbs and walked to the window over the sink as if the view might be different. The same solid sheet met her and the panes rattled. It was impossible to see outside; it was nearly dark even at this time of morning. If the rain didn't stop, it would be a very black night.

"Do you remember when we were visiting District 2, just after you had Alder?" Peeta asked, to distract her. "There was a late blizzard and it didn't stop for three days."

"I couldn't sleep," Katniss said, nodding, "nobody could. Johanna pretended she wasn't scared, but she was."

"That's right," Peeta agreed. "She was so grumpy and tired. Only Fallon and the girls didn't mind it. I guess they were born to it."

"It snows so much more in District 2," Katniss nodded, "it snowed on our victory tour, remember?"

"I remember," Peeta said shortly. He relaxed the sudden tension in his shoulders with effort, bringing the conversation back to their more pleasant and recent visit to the once-militant district. "Remember how much fun Violet had that holiday?"

The memory made Peeta smile as he leant further back into the chair. It was dark outside, almost black like night, even during the day. It made everyone a bit tense. Fallon and his teenage daughters built Violet a fort out of blankets and couches in the living room and she forgot about the storm outside.

"I think we have photos somewhere. Do you want to-" Katniss started.

"No, it's alright," Peeta said quickly.

"Sorry," Katniss said. Into the awkward silence that followed, she mumbled. "I still want this rain to stop."

As the afternoon wore on, the rain slowed to a drizzle. When there were only a few erratic drops splattering the windows, Katniss got up from her cushions. "I won't be gone long," she said.

"I'd really rather you didn't go. The rain might start up again, why not wait for tomorrow?"

"I'll just check the snares, that's all," she said firmly.

"But Nelly will be here soon, don't you want to wait for her?"  
"She comes every day. She'll understand if I miss her today." Katniss stopped to kiss Peeta's cheek, soft and lined like paper that had been crumpled up too many times.

"Please, love, I'll worry. It'll be dark soon, can't you stay?"

Puddles formed between the roots of the apple trees and the chickens had taken shelter in their wooden coop. Only a pair of the bolder, white chickens had risked leaving the dry coop to take advantage of the worms newly risen to the surface. Many of the blossoms had been torn from the branches by the spring deluge and lay, bruised on the ground. As she slogged through the puddles, Katniss was glad of her high boots. With her hand on the rusty latch, she paused and looked back towards the house. It was already growing dim outside, and the windows were friendly patches of light. It would be dark very soon.

Glancing up at the sky, she saw the black clouds crowding close together, jumbled together and overlapping threateningly. But a more hopeful sign; a rainbow graced the sky to the west. It was not a full arc, not even half, and the last two bands, the indigo and violet were a mere suggestion, but Katniss chose to focus on it instead. With a determined nod, she turned her feet up the rutted path towards the meadow.

* * *

Peeta knocked his shin against the kitchen table as he fumbled past it. With one hand on the surface, he crossed to the other side of the room and stretched his hand out to touch the mantle piece. A carriage clock perched there, and Peeta reached out both hands to feel it. He stroked the polished wood, a little dusty, until he found the hands. It was after 7 o'clock and Katniss was not back from hunting. Outside, he knew it would be fully dark.


End file.
